


Semper fidelis

by azziria



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: D/s undertones, Happy Gay Farmers, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azziria/pseuds/azziria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been ten years now since Marcus first kissed Esca, that evening on the road back to Calleva after Caledonia, after the Eagle, when the thought of <i>not</i> kissing Esca finally became more terrifying than what might happen if he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semper fidelis

**Author's Note:**

> Ten years down the line Marcus is still a little insecure. Esca, however, knows exactly where he wants to be.

  
  


From where he's sitting by the fire mending a harness strap Marcus can hear Esca whistling as he splashes across the yard towards the house. It's late afternoon, midwinter, and the light is fading fast; soon Marcus will have to leave off his handiwork, light the lamp and set the meal of yesterday's stew to warm. It's always a challenge to get all the chores done on these short winter days, especially since Marcus's leg pains him in the cold, leaving him stiff and crabbed and slow to move, but Esca remains cheerful as he shoulders more than his share of work with the horses and around the farm, solicitous as always of Marcus's wellbeing, and they get by well enough. And if Marcus sometimes thinks longingly of vineyards and olive trees and warm winters in Hispania, well, it's no more than a passing fancy. He would not go without Esca, and Esca belongs here. 

Esca stomps in through the door bringing with him a swirl of cold, damp air and the smell of wet wool. "Gods, Marcus," he says, "The rain is freezing. It wouldn't surprise me if we have snow by morning." He's soaked through, and as he ducks his head to shake the rainwater from his hair like a hound Marcus is filled yet again with a warm rush of affection. He's sat here by himself for too many hours today, and he craves Esca's company. His thoughts run maudlin if he's left to sit alone for too long. 

It’s been ten years now since he first kissed Esca, that evening on the road back to Calleva after Caledonia, after the Eagle, when the thought of _not_ kissing Esca finally became more terrifying than what might happen if he did. Nerves had made him clumsy, no better than a green boy, but Esca had only pulled back and regarded him with a look that was almost unbearably fond, before tumbling him down onto the blankets and showing him that nothing Marcus wanted held any terrors for him. Ten years, and Marcus has never regretted any of it. 

Despite the hard labour of the farm, the decade has marked Esca only lightly. He wears a few more lines on his face, a few more scars on his body, but he's still fit and capable, still wiry, lean and strong. Marcus suspects that Esca is the sort of man who will only become more spare with age, and he smiles ruefully at the thought; he himself is built on more solid lines, and can no longer be careless of what he eats, especially in the winter when his leg makes fireside tasks more attractive than more active pursuits. It's not that he's at all fat, but he's a little thicker at the waist than he was at twenty, and he has no intention of ending up like the portly middle-aged barrels one sees ogling their slave boys in the bathhouse at Calleva. 

Esca comes to the fire, laying his cloak out to dry and pulling off his boots to spread his toes to the flames with a contented sigh. "The cut on Aster's leg is healing well," he says conversationally, pulling up his stool and reaching to pour himself a cup of the wine that sits mulling on the hearth. "She will be sound again in a few days." Marcus nods agreeably but he's not really listening. He's too busy watching the firelight flicker and dance across the strong lines and planes of Esca's face. Esca is beautiful; Marcus has thought so ever since that first day he saw him in the arena at Calleva, tragic, defiant, and oh so brave. 

What would Esca's life have been if the Romans had never come to Britain, he wonders yet again. Would he have been a chieftain like his father, a lord of five hundred spears, a leader of men? Would he have taken a wife to beget sons, strong and proud to stand beside him in battle? He himself can no longer imagine what his life would have been if he'd never come to Britain, if he'd spent his days marching with the Eagles. Would he still be out there somewhere, drilling his men under a hot foreign sun, or would he already have bled his life out on some battlefield, giving his all for the glory of Rome? It still surprises him somewhat that he cares not for what might have been. He's happy here, on the farm, with this life. With Esca. 

But how can Esca possibly be truly happy here, be satisfied with the life of a farmer, a life filled with drudgery and mundane tasks and with no companion save one crippled Roman ex-soldier? Esca, who should have been the lord of a great hall, who should have had men to command and servants to serve him, and a beautiful and welcoming wife to warm his bed at night. 

Esca once told him that a good slave learns to live in the present, to not dwell on things of the past or hope and plan for the future. Learns to avoid heartache by not thinking about things that no longer are or that can never be. For all the care he took of Marcus, Marcus does not think that Esca was that good slave. 

Belatedly he realises that Esca has fallen silent, and is watching him keenly, eyes glinting in the firelight. Esca has seen these melancholy moods many times before, of course he has, and Esca misses nothing where Marcus is concerned. 

"You're thinking too much, Marcus." 

Marcus huffs a sigh and shrugs. "I know," he says, "and I am sorry for it. I have sat alone with my thoughts for too long today." 

"I have told you that I am happy." Esca's tone is gentle, like one repeating a simple lesson to a beloved child. "I am happy here, with you, with our life. Why will you still not truly believe me?" 

Marcus's heart twists. "I do believe you," he says, "I truly do. It's just that... all of this... us, here... for me, it's..." 

Esca waits patiently, just like he always waits for Marcus, just like Marcus hopes he will always wait for him. Esca will have it from him, however hard it is for Marcus to say it. 

When his tongue loosens it all comes out in a rush. “Esca... this... our life... all of this... have I told you how much I owe to you? How grateful I am to you for everything you've…” 

Esca grins at him, a soft grin that manages to be both fond and amused. “Many times, Marcus… whenever you sup too much wine on festival days… and _every_ time I suck your cock… and then there was that time at Saturnalia when you asked me to…” 

“Esca!” Marcus looks away, glad that the light is dim in their dwelling, because he can feel the blood rising hot in his face. Even after ten years Esca can still make him blush like a maiden with the things he says, the things he does, the things he and Marcus do together… Marcus feels blood rushing to other places, too, he’s hardening in his braccae at the thought of that night, of how Esca had embraced his request enthusiastically and proved himself more than _master_ of the situation, leaving Marcus trembling and helpless under his hands. 

“Marcus.” Esca’s voice is low but commanding, all trace of amusement gone. “Look at me.” 

He raises his eyes. Esca is looking at him thoughtfully, but there’s heat there, too, and a question. 

“I could allow you show your gratitude like that again, if you wished it.” 

And oh, Marcus wishes it, Marcus _wants_ it so much, twin floods of shame and need rushing through him. He swallows again, fighting to keep control, to not let his eagerness for the thing unman him, and nods, a bare tilt of his head in Esca’s direction. 

Esca sees. Esca always sees. 

“Marcus,” Esca says, quietly, “Come here.” 

Three steps take him from his stool and across the room to Esca, and he goes to his knees at Esca’s feet, careless of his leg, bowing his head. He feels Esca’s hand come to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers carding through his hair, warm and soft and comfortingly possessive, and he drops his head to rest it against Esca’s thigh, relaxing into Esca's touch. He finds that he wants to be nowhere else. 

“So good for me,” Esca says, his voice tender. “Always so good for me. Let us stay like this for a while, and then we’ll see how it would please you to serve me, my Marcus.” 

This is his true place, Marcus thinks, here at Esca's feet, under Esca's hands. One poor, crippled Roman to command seems a meagre exchange for five hundred spears, but Esca does not seem to mind. Esca says that he is happy with this life, and happy with Marcus, and Esca does not lie, so it must be the truth, must it not? Marcus sends a silent prayer to the gods giving thanks for their bounty, for all that has been given to him, for _Esca_ , and then he surrenders himself to Esca's touch and finally, finally lets himself stop thinking.


End file.
